Falling into Grace: Companion Pieces
by Arynn Octavia
Summary: A collection of companion pieces to my story "Falling into Grace." Each chapter is a stand-alone piece that occurs in the same universe as "Falling," but doesn't quite fit in the story itself. As with "Falling," these are pre-slash or Destiel slash, and AU (in that Cas isn't an angel). The 1st chapter is a prequel to "Falling," and can be read without having read "Falling" first.
1. Prequel

Story A/N: This is a collection of companion pieces to my story "Falling into Grace" which, for various reasons (flow, alternate POV, etc), don't quite fit into "Falling" itself. This collection will be updated along with "Falling," so that the timelines stay current with each other.

Chapter A/N: This chapter is a prequel to "Falling," so it can be read before "Falling" with no problems. It takes place a few months before the first chapter of "Falling."

Description: Sam tries to help Dean deal when YET ANOTHER person wrongly assumes that the brothers are actually a couple. The emotional fallout leads to some realizations and reassurances between the brothers.

On with the show!

* * *

"When I look at my brother, I see two things:  
First, I see the next place I want to leave a rosy welt.  
Second, I see a good man who will always be there,  
no matter how hard life gets for me or him.  
Then, I get out of the way because I realize  
he's coming at me with a wet dish towel."  
-Dan Pearce

Prequel

Within a minute of walking into the club, Sam Winchester could tell. Frankly, he's surprised it took his brother Dean so long to figure it out. Then again, Dean was focused on hustling pool and getting drunk that night (though not necessarily in that order), so he may not have bothered scrutinizing the place beyond his initial observation that the bar was fully stocked, and that there were pool tables.

To be fair, like most gay bars popular with the 35 and under crowed, this one seemed to consist of only about fifty percent gay people. The rest were straight women who had come out to dance and flirt with the gay guys without having to worry about getting hit on, with the occasional straight boyfriend dragged along for the ride. Besides the seating around the bar, there were a few smaller tables scattered throughout any space that wasn't taken up by the two pool tables, and a small dancing area.

Sam and Dean sat at the bar, facing the pool tables. Dean ordered a beer while Sam pulled out his laptop, causing Dean to silently roll his eyes, before turning them toward the pool tables to assess the competition.

They had chosen this bar for it's proximity to the local university campus. When their cash funds were running dangerously low, like they were that night, headstrong frat-boy types were Dean's favorite mark for pool hustling. They were still young and dumb, living off the parents' money while trying to decide what they wanted to be when they grew up. If a fool and his money are easily parted, a drunk fool trying to save face in front of his friends and his parents' money are parted even easier.

Dean was just finishing his beer when a blonde woman sat down on the neighboring stool and started talking to him. He flirted at her a bit, offering to buy her a drink. She flirted right back, and if Dean wondered why she kept trying to include Sam in their flirtatious conversation, he didn't show it. After she had finished her drink (something girly that contained more fruit juice than actual alcohol), she stood up and reached a hand out toward Dean.

"Would your boyfriend mind if we danced a song?"

Dean had stood up along with her, a wide smile on his face, before her words had registered. It was obvious to Sam when they finally did. The smile slid off of Dean's face like a drink off a barmaid's overfilled tray. It would have been the perfect time for the music to pause in an extended record scratch. In the old west, it would have been the moment the piano player stopped playing and everyone in the bar turned to look at the poker player who had just insulted the gunslinger. Instead, the digital jukebox continued playing, and everyone kept dancing, talking, and drinking, totally oblivious to the conversation.

"Wha- What do you mean?"

The blonde seemed perplexed at the complete one-eighty degree turn from Dean's previously flirtatious demeanor. Confused, she asked, "I mean, he's busy with his computer. Why don't you keep me company for a while?" She turned to face Sam, "You don't mind, do you?"

Sam assured her that he did not mind, before ducking his head low, trying to hide his grin from Dean. He failed, which just made Dean angrier.

"Hey, lady," he said, shifting his weight from one leg to the other and back again while gesturing between himself and Sam. "We're not together."

"My- My mistake." She was obviously thrown by his over-reaction, and the slight growl in his voice was apparently her warning to back away from Dean and disappear into the crowd as quickly as she could.

Dean sat back down heavily on the stool, looking over to see that Sam was still grinning like a loon. "What the hell, man?!"

"Well, it was an honest mistake, especially given where we currently are."

"What does being in Duluth, Minnesota have to do with her assuming I'm gay?"

"Not the city, Dean, the bar."

"Wha…?" Dean finally started looking around, paying attention to something other than the people playing pool and the various ladies around the bar. The small dance floor was so crowded with bodies bouncing to the upbeat song, it was hard to pick out any actual couples, but there were a few people sitting around the tables that finally gave it away: men leaning too closely into other men as they spoke into each other's ears to be heard over music that wasn't actually that loud, hands drifting a little too low on backs to be merely friendly, platonic touches, and one lesbian couple at small table in the corner holding hands as they got up to leave.

Sam picked up the cardboard coaster that had been sitting under Dean's beer and Frisbeed it at his brother's chest. "I mean, it's kinda obvious."

Dean caught the coaster against his chest and looked at it. On one side, on a black background, the words ABSOLUT PRIDE were printed in blocky rainbow letters, on the other, ABSOLUT VODKA was printed in letters just as blocky, and just as rainbow, on a white background.

Dean angrily threw the coaster back down onto the bar, voice growling even lower. "We're leaving."

Dean was obviously in a mood, a scowl planted on his face as they made their way to the Impala and he silently drove them back to the hotel. Sam had wondered about Dean's reactions to this type of situation before. They had even talked about it a few times -that is, every time it had bothered Dean when someone had assumed he was gay, or implied that he and Sam were a couple. Sam had already told Dean about his observation that Dean often overcompensated, and that people could pick up on that. This tendency of Dean's had actually gotten Sam wondering about his brother, which had lead him to start scrutinizing his behavior and interactions with people even closer, which had lead Sam to an almost realization about his big brother. He wasn't certain or anything, but this time, he intended to find out for sure.

Sam turned toward his brother. "What do you have against gay people?"

"What? Nothing! I don't have a problem with gay people. It's just, I'M not gay."

"You're not Italian either."

"Yeah, so?"

"Would you be offended if someone incorrectly assumed you were Italian? Would you act this defensive about it?"

Dean squirmed in his seat a bit. "That's not the same thing."

"It IS the same thing. It's okay to be gay."

"I know it is." Dean's words sounded like an agreement, but his tone spoke of fear.

"It's okay for YOU to be gay," Sam clarified.

Dean's voice was getting deeper as he got more upset. "I'm not gay. I like women."

Sam took a breath, steadying himself for the response that was sure to come after what he was about to say. "It's okay for you to be bisexual, Dean."

Dean's fingers visibly clenched on the steering wheel. "No it's not," he growled.

"Yes it is."

"No it's not!" His voice was starting to get louder now. He was more upset than he had been all evening.

"Why not?"

"BECAUSE IT'S NOT! OKAY?" Dean took a deep breath, visibly trying to calm his voice before continuing, "It's not okay. I can't be."

"Dean, it's fine-"

"No! I'm into classic rock and vintage cars. I hunt demons for a living. I can't be into men."

Sam had to let out a mirthless chuckle. His brother could be so frustrating sometimes! "Dean, stop buying into stereotypes. Interests and hobbies have nothing to do with who we're attracted to."

"We have to be strong. We can't allow ourselves to be weak. We have to be perfect. I have to be strong," Dean recited.

It was almost verbatim what their father used to pound into them as he was training them to be hunters. John Winchester was always harsh over any mistakes from the boys, but the brunt of that mentality had always fallen on Dean. As the oldest, he was always scrutinized harder, and any sign of what John considered to be weakness in his son would be rebuffed with harsh criticism, if not the occasional backhand. But why would Dean equate their training as hunters to his sexuality in any way? Sam wondered if their dad had ever applied his hunter training mentality to criticisms about his oldest son's personal life. Sam remembered being taught not to "hit like a girl." He remembered being told not to be a "pansy" about blood, and each of them being referred to by feminine pronouns whenever they displayed weakness. There was never anything, at least that Sam could remember, said specifically about sexuality. There were no gay slurs.

They had made their way to their hotel room, Dean quickly unlocking the door and then slamming it shut just a little too hard once Sam had come in behind him. He made his way over to his bed and crashed down on it, turning his back toward Sam. He clearly didn't intend to discuss the issue further, but Sam had something he wanted to say.

"Dean."

"Sam, I-"

Cutting off the interruption, Sam pressed. "No, I need to say this. Sexuality has nothing to do with interests, abilities, or worth. It has nothing to do with strength or weakness. It ONLY has to do with who we are sexually or romantically attracted to. There is nothing wrong with being gay. It is not a flaw. It is just a biological reality, like eye color or race. I don't care if you're bisexual, gay, straight, or only into midgets. You're my brother. Who you want doesn't matter, it's who you ARE that matters. Anyone who says otherwise is dead wrong. You get me? Dead. Wrong."

What followed was a pause that stretched on long enough, Sam wasn't sure if Dean had fallen asleep.

Finally, Dean broke the silence. "Sammy, I…" Sam heard Dean take in a faint, shaky breath before he tried to continue, "I'm not-"

Sam interrupted one last time. "I don't care, Dean. I really don't. Whether you end up with a girl, weather you end up with a guy, I just want you to be happy."

An even longer pause followed that. It stretched on long enough, Sam almost thought Dean didn't intend to reply. When he finally did speak, it was so quiet, Sam almost didn't hear him.

"Thanks, Sammy."


	2. Meet Cute

Chapter A/N: This chapter is Sam and Dean's take on the first time the brothers meet Castiel, which is told from Castiel's POV in Ch. 3 of "Falling." I intend this chapter to be read before Ch. 3 of "Falling" (at least that's how I wrote it), but it's not absolutely necessary.

Description: While between cases, Sam and Dean noticed a news story about the vandalism of a church, and it reeked of demon. Since they weren't actively working on any other cases at the time, they decided to investigate, and have just rolled into town…

Told mostly from Sam's POV, though it does briefly shift to Dean's near the end (the point of the shift is marked by a line break, in case you're wondering).

On with the show!

* * *

"What you seek is seeking you."  
-Rumi

Meet Cute

The street in front of St. Anthony's was a no parking zone, so Dean had driven around to the parking lot at the side of the church and into a spot near the front, pulling right up against the curb of the sidewalk that lead to the church's front doors. As they were entering the lot, Sam had noticed there was a sign posted a few feet away that mentioned the rules of weekday parking for the area, so after getting out of the car he walked over to read it, making sure they weren't parking illegally for a Thursday. He was still reading the sign when it happened.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Please excuse me," a low, gravely voice intoned.

Sam turned away from the sign, looking back toward the Impala, only to see his brother standing at the edge of the curb, leaning backward over the hood of the car so far, his body appeared to be nearly diagonal to the ground, a stunned look on his face. On his upper left bicep, a hand gripped tight, apparently preventing him from falling backward any further. The hand belonged to a jogger –if the attire and beads of sweat that were forming at his hairline before dripping down his neck were any indication. The jogger was leaning forward, the angle of his body nearly matching Dean's.

The jogger, who appeared to be in his early to mid 30s, helped steady the elder brother before towing him upright again, but still didn't remove his hand from where it was on the other man's shoulder, leaning toward Dean, a look of concern on his face.

The stunned expression still held firm on Dean's own face, and it appeared that he had no intention of responding –or perhaps that he was unable to.

"Are you okay, sir?" That gruff voice sounded again as the jogger leaned even closer to Dean, squinting his eyes and cocking his head to the side as if it would help him decipher the taller man's thoughts.

Finally, Dean spoke, "No. I mean, yeah! I-," he paused, "I'm okay. Sorry. It was my fault." He smiled at the shorter, sweaty man, assuring him that he was all right.

The jogger finally moved upright, releasing Dean's shoulder and actually taking a step back out of his personal space with what could be a hint of a smile on his face. "No, it was mine," he responded. "I wasn't looking where I was going."

"Hey, no problem, man!" Dean assured him.

The jogger's almost-smile briefly morphed into an actual one, before he turned away from Dean and continued jogging down the sidewalk, throwing a quick, "Have a nice day," along with a wave, back over his shoulder as he went. When he jogged past Sam and found Sam's eyes on his, he nodded in a silent, friendly greeting, never breaking step. Sam nodded back, eyes moving from the jogger to his brother once the man ran passed.

Dean kept his eyes on the jogger's back in front of him as he unhurriedly moved toward Sam and the church beyond. When his brother caught up to where he was standing, Sam turned to match his pace, walking along with him the rest of the way toward entrance.

Sam noticed that Dean kept his eyes trained on the jogger as he reached the intersection and turned right to jog along the sidewalk at the far side of the church, not looking away until the jogger had run far enough down the sidewalk that the church building had totally eclipsed Dean's view of him.

Sam smiled to himself. Since their talk at that gay bar that they had found themselves in a few months ago, Dean hadn't brought the issue up at all, but Sam had noticed that he had started discreetly checking out guys once in a while, or perhaps that he had just stopped trying so hard to hide it from Sam when he did so. He wasn't blatant about it to any degree, and Sam only noticed because he knew his brother so well. He wondered if Dean was even aware of the change in his own behavior.

Sam reached out to pull one of the doors open and held it for Dean, who acknowledged his effort with a silent nod as he started to head inside. When he saw the look on Sam's face, though, the way he was smiling at him, he stopped walking and asked, "What?"

Sam wondered if he dare bring it up.

"Nothing," he assured his brother with a smirk, "he was a good looking guy."

"Shut up!" Dean replied, a half-hearted glare crossing his face as he turned away, finally crossing the threshold into the church.

When he did, his jaw dropped. Any ire he may have been trying to feign toward his brother completely forgotten at the sight before him.

The main church doors opened up into an entry area. On the opposite side of the entry from the main street doors was another set of doors that lead to some sort of open courtyard. From the left and right sides of the entry there sprang a hallway, each of which wrapped around either side of the courtyard, meeting again in the middle of the opposite side in a larger narthex, which contained a wide staircase that lead to the nave. The walls around the courtyard, which ran between it and the entry, narthex, and halls that bordered it, were mostly clear glass, so that the view of the whole layout remained largely unobstructed.

The courtyard itself was mostly grass, with a walkway stretching around its perimeter, on which the periodic stone bench or occasional statue of some saint was situated. In the pristinely manicured grass itself, a multitude of flat stepping stones had been laid flush into the ground to create a windy path that curved in on itself periodically, but never intersected, forming the pattern of a large round labyrinth throughout the whole yard. A cherry tree, currently in full bloom and just beginning to lose its white petals all over the yard, sat at the very center of the labyrinth.

Though the windows in the inner walls, the ones facing the courtyard, were all of clear glass, stained glass windows filled the outer walls between the church and the outside world. From outside, they had looked impressive, but from the inside, with the brighter outside sunlight shining through them and casting patterns of multicolored light all over the walls and floors of the artificially-lit interior, the whole effect was breathtaking.

After making their way through courtyard to the narthex, the boys noticed that on either side of the stairway up to the nave, there was a door set in the wall. The one on the left was labeled "Maintenance" and the one on the right "Offices." Hoping to find someone in charge to talk to, they headed toward the offices.

This door lead to an office suite, consisting of a main reception area, bordered by a number of offices and meeting rooms situated around it. The whole suite appeared, at first glance, to be deserted, but luckily the brothers could hear the sound of someone speaking coming from one of the two offices at the very back, behind the reception desk. They made their way toward this voice.

"With all due respect, Monsignor, I have every faith in the boy, as should you. He's more knowledgeable about the subject than all but, maybe, a handful of people within the church, and all of THEM live in Rome."

The voice was coming through the open door of the office to the left. There was a brass nameplate on the door, which read, "The Reverend Father Robert Singer." Inside, an older priest with a well-groomed beard was sitting behind a desk, phone to his ear as he spoke. As Sam and Dean approached, Sam wrapped his knuckles on the doorjamb, politely letting the priest know that they were there. He turned to face them, waving a silent greeting before raising one finger in the air, indicating that he would be off the phone soon. Sam nodded in acknowledgement, moving away from the door and dragging his brother with him, giving the priest some privacy to finish his call.

After about a minute, the priest spoke. Even from the area just inside the entrance to office suite, the brothers could make out the occasional word of what the priest said, "appointed," and "trust," stuck out, particularly emphasized as they were by the man as he spoke. The phrases "needed help," "hasn't been a problem," and "started before he," were similarly stressed, the priest's voice quite emphatic as he spoke them.

After another silent moment, he sighed, speaking a little clearer, though his voice now sounded defeated. "Very well, Monsignor. I will do as I must."

He hung up the phone quite audibly –Sam wondered if he had slammed the receiver down. He then spoke, anger coloring his voice. "Damn idjits, letting fear blind them!"

Thinking that he had perhaps forgotten that they were there, Sam cleared his throat loudly.

The man exited his office and approached the two brothers. "Hi, I am Father Singer, the Parish Priest here at St. Anthony's. How may I help you?"

Dean grabbed his fake badge and flashed it open toward the priest. "Hello, I'm Special Agent Hetfield, this is Special Agent Ulrich, FBI. We're here investigating the vandalism reported here at St. Anthony's on Tuesday night."

The priest glanced quickly down at their fake IDs and badges, and just as quickly back up to their faces.

"You are, are you?" he said, seemingly more to himself than to them. It appeared he was considering something. It must not have been a very difficult decision, though, because only a moment later, he was speaking again. "I was about to lock the offices up, gentlemen, but if you'd follow me to the rectory. It's my curate you really want to talk to."

When they had all stepped out of the offices, the priest again spoke while turning and locking the office door behind them.

"I wasn't here last night," he told them, turning away from the now-locked door, and motioning for them to follow him as he exited out a side door that led into the parking lot, where the Impala still sat. "Plus, I think you'd find him a better source of information on this kind of thing."

From the parking lot, they followed him toward the alley behind the church. He led them across this alley and to the back door of a smaller brick building on the opposite side of the alley.

"This kind of thing, vandalism?"

The older man turned to look at Sam. "Something like that," he replied vaguely, before opening the door and letting the two men into the building behind him. He led them down a hall toward the street-side of the building, and into what appeared to be a study or library, where he told them to wait.

As soon as he left, shutting the door behind himself, Sam spoke, "That was weird."

Dean didn't seem to care about the priest's odd behavior. "Rectory," he chuckled to himself as he started looking around the room, "sounds dirty."

"A rectory is a house where the priest or priests attending a specific parish live. I assume Father Singer and his curate live here," Sam informed his brother.

"The hell's a curate, anyway?"

"I think it's just what they call an assistant pastor. You know the stereotype of the old priest and the young priest? The curate would be the young one."

Browsing through the book titles on the shelves, Dean spoke again. "So if Father Singer is the old priest, then we must be about to meet the youn-"

"Hello, I'm Father Castiel."

Sam recognized the deep, gruff voice of the jogger from earlier. He turned to find that it was, in fact, the same man. He had obviously showered, replacing the basketball shorts, t-shirt, and running shoes he had worn while jogging with a pristinely pressed black button-up shirt and trousers, an open black blazer over the top. Black leather Oxfords completed the look. Even the belt threaded through the loops of his pants was of sleek black leather. The silver of its buckle, along with the white tab of the Roman Collar of his shirt, were the only things that broke up the all-black ensemble.

Whereas before his short brown hair had been unruly –tufts of it sticking up at various angles, obvious evidence of his having run his fingers absentmindedly through it as he ran, the rest hanging down his forehead and over his ears scruffily in piecy chunks– now it was brushed relatively tame, sweeping across his forehead in a casual side-part. This only allowed his electric blue eyes to pop even more, an explicit burst of color sticking out from amongst the rest of his seemingly desaturated monochromatic visage: his dark hair and clothing, contrasting with the white square in his collar and his light olive skin, lending him an almost black and white appearance.

The one similarity from his previous jogging look to his current "priestly" look was the hint of stubble on his lower face. Deceptively rakish looking –as if he simply hadn't shaved for a few days– his stubble was actually well-groomed, off his neck and with clean edges. In conjunction with his earlier look, it had leant an essence of ruggedness to his appearance. Now, in his polished and proper attire, and with slightly tamer hair, it made him look stylishly tousled.

It was obvious that he recognized the two men from earlier, just as they both recognized him. He looked from Dean to Sam, and then back to Dean again, before continuing to speak.

"Father Robert tells me you wish to speak with me."

Sam looked to Dean to introduce them, but Dean looked like he had no intention of ever speaking again. His stunned expression from the sidewalk earlier was back, but this time his eyes also wandered over the priest's body, raking over his styled hair and his clerical outfit, each piece of which was obviously tailored to fit the man's body specifically. When they reached the collar Dean's eyes paused, as if they were having trouble tearing their gaze away from its gravity. They finally did, though, moving up the rest of the way to instead focus on the shorter man's eyes.

Nope, Dean wasn't going to speak.

Sam cleared his throat "Um, yes. I'm Special Agent Ulrich, and this is Special Agent Hetfield." He brought out his fake wallet, showing his credentials, silently thanking God that Dean had at least still had the presence of mind to reach for his as well. "We're here about the vandalism of the church Tuesday night."

"Ulrich and Hetfield, huh?" The priest –Father Castiel– sounded skeptical, and Sam wagered silently with himself how likely it was that he was a fan of Metallica. He didn't even glance down at their badges, which wasn't a typical reaction whenever they flashed them.

"And you're with the FBI, here to investigate a simple vandalism." It wasn't a statement, but it wasn't really a question either. The man's unwavering eye contact was starting to unnerve Sam. Thankfully, Dean's silent spell had finally broken.

"That's right," he said, stepping closer to the priest.

Those blue eyes shifted to Dean, gaze just as unwavering at it had been when directed toward Sam.

"And you drive a vintage Impala," the priest added, stepping closer to Dean in turn. With the man's eyes locked on Dean instead of him, Sam could tell it was a searching look he had been giving them, as if he didn't believe them and was trying to read their minds to find the truth.

At the mention of his baby, Dean smiled, taking another step toward the priest. "Yep, isn't she pretty?"

At that, the priest chuckled and looked down for a second, before glancing back at Dean. It wasn't his penetrating look from earlier, he was smirking.

Sam still couldn't tell if he believed them or not, but he had a least invited them to sit, then, and agreed to talk with them.

"It was around midnight last night. I had heard the sound of glass breaking, and the silent alarm had been triggered. I went over to the church to see what it was."

Incredulous, Sam had to ask, "You didn't call the police first?"

"I didn't think I needed to. We occasionally have break-ins, people looking for money or something of value to steal. When we show up it usually scares them away. In my experience, if they don't run at the sight of us, it's because they need help."

Sam guessed that made sense. It would probably be true MOST of the time; it was human nature both to flee to avoid getting caught, and to seek charity from the church. Still, he hoped this man didn't always operate on assumptions about human nature. Sometimes, the thing you've just caught might not be human, even if it looks like one. "So what did you see when you made it into the church?"

"When I walked in, I found somebody spray painting the altar. I called out and, like I said, they ran off."

"Did you see who it was?"

The priest hesitated at that, before answering, "no."

Trying to figure out what that moment of hesitation might mean, Sam reiterated what his previous question was actually meant to ask. "Do you remember anything about their appearance?"

"White female, thin, about 5'6", she wore a red hoodie pulled up over her head so I couldn't see her hair, blue jeans, dark street shoes. That's all I saw."

"Did you smell anything unusual?"

The priest looked sharply at him, "Like what?"

"Anything at all. Perfume, body odor-"

"Sulphur?" Dean finished his sentence for him.

The priest looked back at Dean, tilting his head and squinting his eyes, "Why do you ask?"

"Any little bit of information can help us," Sam explained.

"There were no smells I wouldn't expect in that situation."

"What do you mean?"

"You can sometimes smell the oil in the eternal flame burning. We use incense during mass, so it often smells of sandalwood in there. Nothing unexpected."

"May we see the spray painted altar?"

"The church is locked right now and we've sent the altar away to be sanded and refinished, but we did take pictures for insurance. Would you like to see them?"

"That'll work."

The priest rose from the couch and went to the desk. He sat at it briefly, digging through a drawer. As he pulled a laptop from inside, he stood, bringing it to the side of the desk nearest Sam and Dean and opening it so that it was facing them, taking a moment to log on before calling them over. They moved in and stood to either side of the priest as he bent over the laptop to operate it. He had pulled up a picture that showed a broken stained glass window from the outside. The window must have been on the other side of the church, the side the priest had jogged by after running into Dean, because Sam hadn't seen it from the parking lot. The next picture showed the same broken window from the inside, shards of multicolored glass littering a deep crimson carpet. The final one showed a symbol that didn't look familiar to Sam spray painted across the wooden top of a satinwood altar.

Before Sam had the chance, Dean had asked what he was thinking. "Does this mark mean anything to you?"

* * *

"Does this mark mean anything to you?"

Dean had been leaning in behind the other man to view the computer screen more closely when he asked, so when the priest turned to look at him in response, he found himself uncomfortably close to him. He straightened back up so that he wasn't leaning into the other man's personal space, his eyes flickering involuntarily down to the priest's lips, before he caught them and forced them to train back to his eyes again.

The priest stepped forward, moving so that he was very close to Dean again. "Does it mean anything to you?"

"No, it doesn't," Dean answered automatically while taking a step backward.

"Would you like a copy of the image?" The priest took another step closer and lowered his head a bit as he spoke, what could be the hint of a small smirk playing on his lips, as the angle of his neck forced his voice a tad deeper, rougher.

Dean was pretty damn sure that look wasn't intended to be sexy, but combined with that husky voice, it was definitely having an effect on him. He felt himself urged forward, as if his body had suddenly found itself caught in some sort of gravitational pull attracting it toward the other man, but thankfully he didn't succumb. His brain was still in charge, here. Instead, he took a rather large step backward.

Though it seemed that his brain had enough control to make him step away from the priest, despite every impulse in his body screaming at him to move closer to the man, it didn't seem to have enough to actually let him process what the man had just asked, let alone to speak in reply.

When Dean didn't answer immediately, Sam did it for him. "Yes, please. That would be helpful. Thank you."

The man turned to print the image, and Dean very blatantly checked out his ass.

Sam attempted to shoot his brother a look that said, 'What the hell are you doing?!,' but Dean wasn't paying attention to him, focused as he was on the other man's butt. When the printing page fell into the tray, the priest bent slightly forward to reach across the desk for it (bringing a smile to Dean's face), then turned and handed it to Sam.

"Well, have a nice day, gentlemen."

It was obviously a dismissal.

When they were back at the Impala, Dean felt the need to take a deep, cleansing breath, as if he had been in a low-oxygen environment for the last few minutes.

"That was intense," he said, dropping down into the driver's seat.

"Did you notice he didn't actually answer you when you asked if the mark meant anything to him?" Sam asked, as if pointing out something he felt should have been obvious.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean's brain seemed to be working again, finally.

"And what was with you in there?"

Dean didn't have an answer to that, at least nothing he was willing to say out loud, especially to Sam.

"I don't think he told us the full story," Sam continued, not bothering to wait for a reply from his brother, "We should come back later tonight, get into that church and see for ourselves."


End file.
